HAVING NOT SEEN Darcy for nearly a week, Liz forwent the pretense of a run and simply walked from her sisters’ apartment building to his and knocked on the door. He didn’t answer, but as she left the building, surly about the lack of gratification, she encountered him on his way in, carrying several plastic grocery bags in both hands.

“I assumed you were working,” she said, and he shook his head.

“I go in tonight at six. Is something wrong?” She was deciding how to answer—was he trying to make her feel foolish?—when he added, with some degree of awkwardness, “Or did you just come over to, ah—right. Come in. By all means.”

“Here.” She extended her hand. “Give me a few bags.”

As she followed him back up the stairs, she took a perverse delight in sharing the latest news about her family, though instead of mockingly declaring his lack of surprise that the Bennets were harboring an insect plague of biblical proportions, he said, with what bordered on sympathy, “Old houses have a lot of issues. That’s a shame the buyers retracted their offer.”

“Well, Kitty and Mary are your neighbors now,” she said. “They’re at the corner of Millsbrae and Atlantic, in case you need to borrow a cup of sugar.”

“I’m surprised a landlord would rent to two people without jobs.”

“It’s my name on the lease.”

They had reached the second floor, and Darcy said as he unlocked his door, “You’re not worried about destroying your credit?”

“Oh, I assume I will. But I don’t see what the alternative is.”

Inside, Darcy put away the groceries requiring refrigeration while she sat on a kitchen stool; he offered her beer and water, both of which she declined; and within ten minutes the true reason for her visit had been not only initiated but, for both parties, successfully completed.

“This so-called hate sex,” Darcy said then. “Is it the norm for you?” Their latest encounter, like the earlier ones, had been consummated above the sheets, and they were presently positioned near each other but no longer touching; in order to comply with cuddle avoidance, Liz had rolled away from him and lay, as he did, on her back.

Liz laughed. “If you have to ask if someone’s slutty, that probably means the answer is yes.”

“That’s hardly what I was implying. I just wonder if you find it more expedient. Though you did say you recently got out of a relationship, if I remember correctly.”

“No, hate sex isn’t the norm for me, but neither is living in Cincinnati. And as a matter of fact, I’m about to leave. I go tomorrow afternoon to Houston to interview Kathy de Bourgh, and I’ll fly on to New York from there.”

“You’re leaving town tomorrow?” Darcy seemed surprised.

“Don’t be too heartbroken,” Liz said. “Have you ever tried online dating? If not, you should.”

“Have you ever tried online dating?”

“Sure, and I definitely would do it if I lived here.”

For a few seconds, Darcy was quiet. Finally, he said, “Is the person you just broke up with Jasper Wick?”

“If it were, that’d be scandalous, wouldn’t it? Since he’s a married man and a Stanford outcast.” Liz glanced at her watch. “A part of me is tempted to offer to write your online dating profile, but I’m not sure it’s ethical to inflict you on another human woman. It wouldn’t be very sisterly, if you know what I mean.”

She had been teasing, but the expression on his face seemed to be one of genuine displeasure. He said, “I don’t need your help with an online dating profile.”

“Fair enough. You do have a PhD, I hear.” Liz swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for her clothes on the floor. She was fastening the clasp of her bra when she heard Darcy say, “That tattoo always surprises me.”

It was two inches by one inch, an image of a typewriter on the small of her back. Without turning, she said, “Want to guess how old I was when I got it?”

“Twenty?”

“Even worse. Twenty-three. The irony is that I thought it was much cooler than a flower or a Chinese symbol. I was declaring my serious ambitions as a writer. But somehow, all these years later, it’s never been the right moment to show it to any of the people I’ve interviewed.” Liz glanced over her shoulder. “Maybe you should get the Hippocratic oath on your butt.”

“Maybe so,” he said, and Liz felt a twinge of something. She still didn’t particularly like him, but it was hard not to wonder if they’d cross paths again. He tapped his left biceps. “Or the Skyline Chili logo up here.”

She had pulled on her shirt and underwear and she stood, turning to face him as she stepped into her jeans. Presumably, it was the last time they’d see each other before she left town, and this unexpected welling of emotion—it was gaining rather than decreasing in intensity. Also, rather bizarrely, there was some chance that a few minutes earlier, during what had appeared to be the height of his pleasure, Darcy had uttered the words, “My darling.” If this had indeed happened, Liz was confident the utterance had been accidental, and certainly it had been acknowledged by neither of them. In any case, what was she supposed to do now—hug him goodbye like a co-worker? No, she would not hug him.

“You’re way too good for Jasper, if that’s who it was,” Darcy said. He seemed simultaneously like a stranger and someone she knew extremely well; there was either an enormous amount to say or nothing at all.

She tried to sound lighthearted. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”